


Yalta

by osprey_archer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February 1945. England, America, and Russia meet at Yalta. But their wartime understanding is slipping away. </p>
<p>
  <i>England's hand touched Russia’s cheek. Russia flinched away, and forced himself to look at England, so England would have no excuse to touch him. “Listen, Russia,” England said again, and his thick eyebrows drew together, as if he could make Russia believe through sheer willpower. “He’s your boss. Nothing should be more important to him than your well-being.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yalta

Russia sat, as he had been sitting all day, in his room high in the Livadia Palace, listening to the hateful tick-tick-tick of the unending clock.

Stalin wouldn’t like it if he broke it.

He had thought that he would see England and America at the conference. He had said so to Stalin, even – his cheeks heated at the memory – on the train, on the way to Yalta. 

”Why do you want to see them?” Stalin asked, and Russia saw his mistake. 

“I don’t, of course,” said Russia, and felt the old anxious flutter in his chest. “I don’t; they’re bourgeois capitalist scum. I just thought – ”

His whole face burned, remembering. He opened his window. The cold February wind blew in, and he almost closed it; but he was always cold anyway. 

He could hear the waves on the Black Sea, just at the edge of his hearing – except he was imagining that; Stalin had said he couldn’t hear them up here. 

Stalin usually said he was imagining things. He would probably be able to hear the imaginary waves just as well with the window closed. It was good he had Stalin to look after him. 

Russia left the window open. 

Stalin had looked at him, the concentrated stare that said Russia had forgotten something terribly important, as always. “They hate you,” Stalin reminded him. “All the capitalist countries do. Why would they want to see you?” 

And his eyes skated disdainfully over Russia – Russia’s broken arm, his hollow hungry face.

“I hate them too,” Russia said, and glanced at Stalin; but Stalin’s eyes were on his _Pravda_ again. He didn’t want to see Russia, either.

So at Yalta, Russia stayed in his room. 

He felt very cold and tired. But he couldn’t sleep till Stalin came, so the cold was good, because it would keep him awake. And he hurt less, anyway, when he was cold. Russia pulled his scarf up over his mouth.

Someone knocked. 

Russia stood at once, tugging off the sling – Stalin hated to see the sling – except it couldn’t be Stalin, because Stalin never knocked. Russia grabbed his crowbar. “Who – ” he began. 

“See, I told you we’d find him,” America said, his voice so loud it was like the door wasn’t even there. 

And then door _wasn’t_ there, because America lifted off its hinges, and then stared at the door in his hands, as if puzzled how it had gotten there. “ _America_ ,” said England, standing behind him shaking his head.

Russia set aside his crowbar. 

America tossed the door aside and bounded across the room, hand outstretched. Russia backed against the windowsill, arms behind his back. America seemed to take up the whole room. Russia felt a flutter of panic in his throat. They couldn’t be here when Stalin got here. 

“Russia! Why are you hiding up here?” America cried, eager as a puppy. “We’ve been looking for you for _ages_ , I can’t find my way down to the beach because your streets are so weird. Are you sick?”

“No!” said Russia, and glanced at his reflection in the dark window. He looked better than he had two years ago – lots better than Poland, or poor Liet. “I’m stronger than ever,” he said, and crossed his arms over his chest, and glared for good measure. 

America slung an arm around Russia’s shoulders. Russia jumped, surprised by the touch (because it didn’t hurt), and America shouted, “Let’s go to the beach!” 

“What? But…” Russia cast for an excuse. The pain in his shoulders faded under the warm weight of America’s arm. He ought to shrug it off. It was too heavy; he could not shrug it off. What if Stalin – 

“Our bosses are all tied up in a meeting,” England said quietly. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them. Seeing too much. “They’ll be busy till morning, most likely.” 

“But it’s February,” Russia protested, weakly. America began to steer him toward the door. His arm was warm as sunshine on Russia’s shoulders. 

“So?” said America. “There’s a beach. Let’s go swimming!” 

***

America chucked off his clothes as soon as they reached the beach. Bomber jacket, boots, trousers and shirt scattered across the white sand as he bounded across the beach, almost flying with each leap. 

Russia could not look away. It was just – America was unmarked. No scars, no blemishes at all, only smooth skin that stretched over his muscles as he bounded onto the dock. It trembled beneath his footsteps, and shuddered when he dove into the cold Black Sea. 

Russia could not imagine moving with such abandon, without worrying about the pain. 

America blasted to the surface, water fountaining off his broad shoulders. The drops smacked cold on Russia’s face. “Water’s fine!” he shouted. He grabbed the edge of the dock, and made to haul himself up. The board broke under his grip. He plummeted back into the water, and came up again, sputtering, and staring at the board in his hands.

“He doesn’t know his own strength,” England said quietly, unbuttoning his shirt. A puckered red scar sliced across his arm. Barely a wound, Russia thought, with contemptuous envy. He pulled his coat tighter around him. 

America tossed the board away. “Last one in’s a rotten – ” he began, then cried, “ _England_! Oh my god, your _arm_! What happened to you?” 

Embarrassment blazed through Russia. He felt as if someone had shown a spotlight on his own wounds, so America could stare at them in horrified fascination. 

“I just had a _war_ ,” England said, with exasperated affection - as if having someone else see his wounds wasn't mortifying, wasn't dangerous at all. 

Russia checked his buttons and tucked his scarf more tightly around his neck. He backed slowly down the dock. It creaked. He froze.

They didn't hear, or turn to look at him. They didn't care that he was leaving. America was riveted on England's arm. “It looks awful,” America said, pulling himself half on the dock to look more closely. 

Russia's jaw clenched. England was barely hurt at all. 

“Does it hurt?” America asked. 

“Only a little,” England said, and he – Russia could not believe it – he actually crouched at the end of the dock, holding out his wounded arm to show America, as if weakness were not a thing to hide. America touched the scar lightly, and then his fingers flinched away. “Oh don’t be ridiculous, America, you’ve seen wounds before. What about your Civil War?”

Russia reached the beach. The sand muffled his footsteps, and he speeded up; but their voices carried across the water. 

“But that was like a million years ago. Can I help? Is there anything I can – ”

Then Russia got around the sea wall, so they couldn’t see him; and then he ran. 

***

He should not have run. It reopened some of the sewn-up cuts, and they bled. Stalin would be mad if he saw. He always made Stalin mad. 

But this time, at least, he could maybe bind them before Stalin saw. The air was cold, so cold on his bare skin. He ought to close the window. 

He thought he could hear America splashing. But that, he was sure, was imaginary. 

Someone knocked on the broken door. Russia upset the bowl of bloody water over his desk and grabbed his shirt. 

But it was England, all alone: no America, at least, to see his weakness. England leaned against doorjamb, and said, “I thought it might be something like that. Do you need help?” 

“No!”

England sighed. “Of course not. But would you like it, then?” 

“No,” said Russia, again, but less forcefully. Stalin wouldn’t like it. 

But when England didn’t move, Russia said, “There are some that are…some that I can’t – that I have trouble reaching, because…”

“On your back?” England suggested, and when Russia didn’t reply, he rolled up his sleeves and came in. 

“I wasn’t retreating,” said Russia, twisting to watch England as he walked around Russia. He couldn’t bear having people at his back. “It was Stalingrad, with enemies on all sides. I never retreated. Stalin would have shot me.”

He was conscious at once of saying too much. But England didn’t respond. England never reacted. Russia hated that about him. “You have to shoot people,” he told England. “Sometimes. If you love them.” 

“Mmm,” said England, lips pressed together as he concentrated on washing out the wounds. His hands were clinical, efficient, very steady. Warm. “This will sting,” he said, and the sharp scent of iodine stained the air. Russia pressed his face against the chair arm as the iodine clawed into his back.

“Just like that,” he said, voice muffled against his arm. “That’s how you make them better, you have to hurt them sometimes.”

“Mmm,” England said again, and washed Russia’s back in warm water. “Bandages?” he asked. Russia shook his head. 

“Stalin doesn’t think I need…” He stopped. That, too, was saying too much. What was wrong with him, telling England all these things? There wasn’t enough air in the room. He shouldn’t be talking to England at all. “Stalin says I don’t need any,” he said, voice rising. 

“I suppose not,” said England, so calm. “Where is your boss? He ought to help you with this.”

“He’s got more important things to do,” Russia snapped. He grabbed his shirt. “He doesn’t want – that is, I don’t like to bother him with…” He buttoned his shirt. His throat felt tight. “With something so unimportant.”

“Unimportant?” England said incredulously. “Russia, listen, if Stalin thinks you're _unimportant_ – ”

“Shut up!” yelled Russia. “Shut up! Shut up!” He covered his ears, or would have, but his broken arm wouldn’t bend like that. 

England took a step back, and crouched, his head just level with the chair arm. He reached to touch Russia’s good arm, and stopped his hand when Russia pulled back. “Listen,” he said. “He’s your boss, there isn’t anything that should be – Russia, look at me – ” 

England's hand touched Russia’s cheek. Russia flinched away, and forced himself to look at England, so England would have no excuse to touch him. “Listen, Russia,” England said again, and his thick eyebrows drew together, as if he could make Russia believe through sheer willpower. “He’s your boss. Nothing should be more important to him than your well-being.”

The clock ticked in the silence. Russia could hear himself breathe, too loudly. “Nothing is,” he said, and his voice trembled. “Except Communism. But that’s – that’s different. It’s more important to me too – he explained to me, that Communism is more important, and – it’s not like I can leave – ”

His voice cracked. “Not that I want to,” he said, even though it was too late: Stalin would know, Stalin always knew. Russia's betrayal would linger in the air like the cold.

Russia hated England. “Get out!”

“You’re stronger than he is,” said England. Russia grabbed for England’s wounded arm; but England slipped away from his hand, and left. 

The clock ticked. The cold air hurt his throat. 

Russia slammed the window shut. It blocked out the sound of the waves.


End file.
